


Ooh là là—Lalique

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Auctions, Counterfeit Lalique Art, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Peter and Neal decide to put a sting operation into play. It should have been a low risk venture, but when did things ever go according to plan? When Neal’s life is put in peril, Peter is helpless and must stand back and hope for the best.





	1. The Sting

Working in the White Collar Division of the FBI wasn’t always all about taking down dangerous thieves, slick counterfeiters, or even mild-mannered young bond forgers. To Neal’s way of thinking, it was a lot of trivial and dull minutia revolving around dumb stuff like fake Prada bags and knockoff Rolexes. He watched his keeper take it all in stride, day after day, without a peep of discontent. When Neal would whine about being bored, Peter would tell him to cowboy up and get with the program. So, under disgruntled protest, Neal did his best to appeared interested and engaged. He only rolled his eyes behind Peter’s back, and during the long afternoons, he amused himself by thinking up new and innovative capers of his own. Not that he would ever put them into play, of course. It was just a mental exercise to keep his mind sharp.

Neal sighed yet again when Peter assembled the team in the conference room one dreary winter afternoon. Without a lot of fanfare, the FBI agent laid out the latest “criminal” transgression committed by a local wheeler-dealer who was selling some antique Art Deco glass pieces on an online auction site that he claimed were produced by famed artisan René Lalique. Neal did his best to conceal a yawn by hiding it behind his hand as he slouched down in his chair, but Peter caught the gesture and frowned.

“Neal,” Peter barked, “prove that you’re an esoteric Renaissance Man and tell the team about Monsieur Lalique.”

“Sure,” Neal answered confidently as he sat up straight once again. “Lalique started out as jewelry designer in the 1880s in Paris. He was quite innovative and his creations were exceptionally beautiful. Later, in the 1920s, he experimented with larger Art Deco designs that he incorporated into things such as perfume bottles, vases, clocks, and even automobile hood ornaments. He favored flowing lines with dragonflies, flowers, and even dancing sea nymphs, and he often integrated them into his pieces as well as his hallmark of making prominent embossed aspects appear almost translucent. Characteristically, the glass was crystal in combination with acid-etched relief and that almost ethereal gauziness. Collectors are familiar with the often-used opalescent white color, but the more unique and precious pieces were tinted in hues of red, amber, green, and blue. Lalique owned several shops in Paris, and upon his death in 1945, his son took over the prosperous business that is still in existence today.”

Neal was ready for his gold star, but Peter ignored his accurate rendition and took up the narrative at this point. “Okay, there’s your background, people, and here’s what’s going on now. It has come to our attention that some recently auctioned items may not be the real deal. Several purchasers have tried to have their pieces insured, but some authenticators are voicing hesitant qualms about their provenance. Tell us why that may be a hard fact to establish, Neal?” Peter continued to goad his less-than-interested CI.

Neal gave his handler the fish-eye, but complied yet again. “Lalique utilized the ‘lost wax’ technique. He would make a model in wax and then a mold would be formed around it. Next, the wax would be melted as molten glass poured into the mold replaced it. The higher demand today has made that labor-intensive procedure obsolete, and pressed glass is the most expedient and efficient method at the present time. Authenticators would just have to make a determination of what kind of technique was used.”

“Okay, Mr. Know It All,” Peter cracked wise, “that’s accurate so far. Now, go a step further and tell us why it’s almost impossible to do that. What else should they look for during their evaluations?”

Neal was not about to be denigrated by Peter’s condescending attitude. “I’ll grant you that it may be difficult to differentiate between the modern method and the antiquated one, but it's not totally impossible. Lalique’s glass had a higher lead content, so if you were to compare the weight with a reproduction, his creation would be much heavier. You could also examine markings on the glass. Authentic Lalique glass is always marked whereas pressed glass is not. As a general rule, glass marks made pre-1945 include the initial ‘R’ if they are authentic. After Lalique’s death in 1945, the ‘R’ was dropped and the word ‘France’ was substituted. It is imperative to be alert to any enhancements made to a fake such as the later engraving of an ‘R.’ Adding an engraved or etched mark is fairly simple to do. All you would need is a diamond tip pencil or a rotary grinder with a vibrating metal tip. The lazy man’s way to do this is with a rubber stamp and acid. Easy-peasy, not even any sandblasting required.”

“Uh huh,” Peter said in a noncommittal way as he hauled out several beautiful pieces of crystal that included a small urn, a nymph with an arched spine, and a plate with etched bowers of foliage and birds on its surface. “Care to take a gander at these and prove that your expertise rivals specialists with years of training in spotting fakes?”

“I think I may be up for that little task,” Neal grinned. “Generally speaking, all authentic pre-1945 Lalique signatures are very small, rarely over 1/8 inch. The cursive style is very plain with all the letters being the same width and having no decorative flourishes at the end. They appear in inconspicuous places like the bottom rim of a vase or worked into a design of a statuette. Forged marks, on the other hand, stand out and are placed in a prominent spot. The name is relatively large, up to ½ inches high, and the letters are quite fancy and decorative. All of these pieces on the table fail to play the game _‘Where’s Waldo.'_ The signatures are excessively elegant and quite easy to spot in plain sight, so it disproves the alleged provenance beyond a shadow of a doubt. At least to yours truly,” he added smugly.

Members of the team were now craning their necks to see exactly what Neal was pointing out. “So now you see the tough dilemma,” Peter intoned solemnly. “Being precisely certain is not something that the experts are comfortable stating. Sometimes even they can’t agree, but we have enough professionals who are committed enough to say that what they have examined are forgeries. Since our own resident expert concurs, now it’s up to us to take this charlatan down.”

This time Neal couldn’t help himself and he did roll his eyes. “Peter, why is the FBI even expending any man hours on this thing? It’s penny ante stuff. Old trinkets by Lalique may bring in between $500 to maybe $1000. Perhaps a really rare bowl or vase could net as much as $8,000 to $10,000, but we're not talking Rembrandt masterpiece bonanzas. Besides, anybody gullible enough to bid on something, sight unseen, is a fool. They should embrace that old caveat of ‘let the buyer beware’ because if something looks like it’s too good to be true, then it probably is.”

“Well, aren’t you the jaded one!” Peter chided. “Fraud is fraud, Neal, and it does come under our purview after we were alerted by New York’s Attorney General. The DOJ, and specifically White Collar, will be spearheading the investigation of what is now termed grand larceny.”

“That should be easy enough to do,” Jones chimed in. “We can track the IP address of the auction and personally take the chump down, once and for all.”

“That’s already been done by the Cyber Crimes Division,” Peter informed his team. “They arrested the ‘auctioneer’ of the online site, but discovered he was just a cut-out, an intermediary who facilitates the process. He never even sees the goods or the person making it; he just receives jpeg pictures with the details. He does all the heavy lifting until the auction is over. Then he lets the next guy up the food chain know, via the Dark Web, and the item is shipped out from various postal packing stores here and in New Jersey.”

“Did Cyber Crimes get a name out of him,” Diana asked.

Peter shook his head. “No, because the auctioneer only knows his handler by a screen name and avatar—a very stylized ‘ _René’_ on a complicated crest. However, a deal was struck with the middleman. He gets a pass with no jail time if he keeps the lines of communication open with his boss,” Peter explained. “He is supposed to alert this anonymous _René_ that things have fallen apart because the craftsmanship of the merchandise has been put under the microscope and has come up lacking. The Feds have shut the auction down. Now that’s where we take up the baton, and that’s where you come in, Neal. Has your past repertoire ever included forging something in glass?”

“Gee, Peter,” Neal grinned, “why would you be asking me that?”

“Oh, just a random suspicious flight of fancy off the top of my head,” Peter quipped. “Well, have you?”

“I don’t think I’d better answer that question, if you don’t mind,” Neal waffled.

“Neal …,” his handler growled intimidatingly.

The CI shrugged. “Do pretty little colored glass gems count?”

Peter groaned. “Just tell me if you are capable of making Lalique fakes that are as good as the real deal? If you can, perhaps the middleman can tout your expertise and get you a face-to-face encounter with the man behind the curtain. You could then broker your own arrangement to provide new merchandise if the two of you can come to terms with the profit sharing. If that pans out, then we can take the dude down.”

The con man contemplated that scenario for a few seconds. “I could probably manage the ruse if I had the right equipment and tools and an adequate space to work my magic,” Neal said thoughtfully. “Oh, and I’d have to have access to the real pieces of antique Lalique to make wax impressions that would stand up to the closest scrutiny. I’m old school all the way with no shortcuts. I take pride in my work, as you well know.”

“Of course you do,” Peter groused. “I’ll run it up the flagpole with Hughes to see if he’s willing to part with some of our discretionary funds to get you up and running if this _René_ person takes the bait. Jones will be standing right behind the auctioneer’s shoulder when he contacts him to hopefully put our plan into motion.”

“Hot damn! So, we’re going to set up a sting,” Neal crowed happily. “I guess I’m going to have to decide if I want to be Newman or Redford.”

Peter just sighed and shook his head while the rest of the team snickered.

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, the best laid plans don’t always work out as hoped. _René_ wasn’t happy that the auction site had been shut down, but neither was he willing to peak out from the shadows at this juncture to form a new liaison with an unknown entity.

“He’s gone to ground,” Peter said unhappily, “so we’re completely stymied at this point.”

“Peter, Peter,” Neal said in a disappointed sing-song tone. “Patience is the key to a long con. It’s not all Elliot Ness gangbuster stuff. If I know anything about nefarious and greedy criminal minds, it’s that they don’t just fold their tents and slink off into the sunset when they hit a little snag.”

“I guess you would know that,” Peter snarked.

“Hey, Buddy, I’m your ace in the hole, so I think a little respect is in order,” the young con man teased.

Peter just raised his eyebrows and stared dolefully in his CI’s face. “Don’t push it, Neal.”

“I’m just saying that there may be another avenue to explore to get him to come to us,” Neal answered mysteriously.

“And that would be?” Peter asked with no small degree of reluctance.

Neal grinned. “We set up our own new auction site on the Internet. Jones could be the auctioneer. I can make a bunch of stupendously beautiful and almost virtually authentic replicas for the inventory. When _René_ gets wind of the competition, he’ll rethink his decision and he’ll make an overture.”

“I can picture a few glitches in your plan, Neal,” Peter said solemnly. “First, Hughes is not going to approve any expense to set you up in an illegal business on a whim. We don’t even know if _René_ would see that new online auction or even be interested. Secondly, you are not going to foist your fakes off on unsuspecting buyers, no matter how gullible you deem them to be. And lastly, perhaps if _René_ does become aware of the new and improved competition, he may not want to form a conglomerate. He may want to eliminate it and you permanently.”

“Aw, Peter, you’re worried about me. That’s sweet and I’m sincerely touched,” Neal said fondly.

“Yeah, well I’ve put in a lot of time training you, so I don’t want all my effort to go to waste,” Peter replied cynically. “If you bite the dust, I’d have to start all over again with another cheeky and exasperating felon on a leash.”

“Now, Peter, you know I’m one of a kind and you could never replace me in a million years,” Neal answered in a _cheeky and exasperating_ tone. “C’mon, Buddy, be bold and go out on a limb for once. Life is all about reaching for a shooting star and holding on with both hands.”

“Yeah, well, comets eventually crash and burn, Neal,” Peter answered drolly.

“Sure,” Neal agreed, “but while they’re blazing their paths across the night sky, the ride is fantastic!”


	2. Neal Likes Shiny Things

Peter did a lot of tapdancing in Hughes’ office and, miraculously, the old man agreed to provide a minimum of funds to set up Neal’s new little hobby. It was enough to obtain the meagerest essentials to furnish a small warehouse in the meatpacking district with a furnace and some other tools of the glassmaking trade.

“Can you make do with this stuff?” Peter asked dubiously when he oversaw the installation of the equipment.

“It’s just the bare bones, but I’m certain Mozzie has the other necessary accoutrements, and he can also provide the raw materials like silica sand and lead oxide,” Neal said confidently.

“Of course he can,” Peter groused. “Does that bald little gnome have to be part of this op?”

“Afraid so,” Neal replied. “You really shouldn’t harbor such animosity towards Mozzie, Peter. He does have his moments, and he’s a rare genius with a lot of arcane talents. That sort of balances things out.”

“Well, I’m not totally convinced,” the FBI agent snorted.

“Let’s table that for now and move on to the next phase,” Neal encouraged. “I need to have access to some legitimate antique Lalique pieces so that I can start by making precise wax models. I happen to know that there is an actual Lalique Museum located on the Rue du Hochberg in France. Do you think the FBI has enough clout to get the curator of that museum to ship a few unique pieces to a New York store on temporary loan? Serendipitously, Lalique has a showroom right here on 5th Avenue.”

“Are you sure you can’t just work from photographs?” Peter asked hopefully, only to be met with Neal’s sad forlorn expression. “Let me see what I can do,” the FBI agent finally capitulated with a dramatic sigh.

It took a few weeks to get everyone on the same page. The Lalique Company as well as the French museum were not happy to learn that forgeries of their precious and valuable heirlooms were being pandered over the Internet like common little tchotchkes. The parent company and the museum put their heads together and deemed that a dozen antique pieces, personally crafted by René Lalique, would arrive in the United States on loan for a short-term exhibition at their flagship store in New York. Now Neal could get up close and personal with his muse. Even though the 5th Avenue emporium was insisting on providing its own security, Peter still sent both Jones and Diana along to oversee Neal during his tedious wax model endeavors. That labor-intensive process stretched out over ten days and Peter was getting antsy. His team was running two people short, and crime didn’t take a holiday while Neal was into his arts and crafts project.

“Can you speed this up?” Peter asked in exasperation as he made one of his drop-in visits to a back room at the Lalique store.

“Just chill out, Buddy,” Neal goaded. “I have to take my time if I want to do it right. Remember what I told you about a long con? It’s all about patience and persistence.”

“I think you’re just a fussy prima donna, Pal, who’s drawing this out so that you don’t have to be at your desk at the office,” Peter shot back with a scowl.

Neal blithely ignored his handler and his stormy expression while he continued to gently manipulate the soft wax. Peter glanced at his loitering junior agents who gave him a look of doleful commiseration. It was frustrating for them, too. Watching Neal slowly work at fashioning objects d’art was like watching paint dry. Eventually, Peter left in a frustrated huff because his hands were tied and there really was nothing that he could do at this point.

A few days later, Neal showed up at the White Collar office. “You can stop popping antacids, Peter,” he said with a smarmy smile. “The models and molds are completed and Jones and Diana helped transport them to the warehouse workshop. I can start making actual glass today, unless you’re still pining away for my presence here. I know you’ve missed me these last two weeks.”

“Yeah, like an ulcer,” Peter snarked. “But don’t let me stop you from going forward. Maybe this time it won’t be at a snail’s pace. The construction of the Great Wall of China probably moved along faster!”

“I’m sure that throughout history every great artist has endured their share of criticism,” Neal sighed. “I’ve read that Pope Julius II was constantly on Michelangelo’s case during the four years that he worked on the Sistine Chapel.”

“Neal …,” Peter intoned menacingly.

“On it. I’m outta here!” the young CI chirped as he did an about-face and headed for the office doors before disappearing into an elevator.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal, with Mozzie’s assistance, began creating the unique Art Deco pieces that afternoon. It was hot and tedious work to heat the raw materials and begin filling the molds, but the two friends had labored under less than comfortable conditions while running past cons. Eventually, after six of the twelve pieces had cooled for a few days outside the furnace, each was carefully polished, etched, and signed. Then it was time to add that distinctive milky opalescence to various aspects on their surfaces. Of course, Peter was impatient, and he stopped by regularly to check on the progress. He stood transfixed one afternoon as he watched Neal mix simple white glue with a small paintbrush before delicately applying it to lily petals on a bowl.

_“Seriously?”_ Peter remarked with a frown on his face. “You’re using a kindergartener’s school supply item to make an exquisite masterpiece?”

“You wanted me to speed up the process,” Neal challenged, “so I’m cutting corners where I can. Don’t worry, the end result will stand up to the most intense scrutiny.”

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” the FBI agent said suspiciously.

_“Seriously,”_ Neal mimicked his handler, “you really don’t want to know.”

“You’re right; I don’t!” Peter sighed.

“Peter, you should be doing cartwheels since we now have enough finished inventory that we can put up for auction and set our little sting in motion.”

“Great!” an elated Peter reacted.

“But,” Neal stuck a pin in Peter’s happiness balloon, “I still want to compare my work to the originals to make sure they are totally accurate in every detail. I’ll need to go back to the Lalique showroom.”

“I can’t spare Jones or Diana right now to babysit you, Neal,” Peter argued. “They’re neck-deep in tracking down a currency counterfeiting ring.”

“Well, surely there is someone else who can grace me with their presence,” Neal said logically. “I’m a very social guy so I can get along with anybody. Well, maybe not Hughes, so please don’t ask him to be my chaperone.”

In the end, it was an amiable new probie named Westly who showed up at the warehouse to help Neal and Mozzie cart several heavy boxes to the store on 5th Avenue.

“Wow, this is a lot of stuff,” the young man observed.

“Yeah, I actually made more than one copy of each item,” Neal explained. “I want to pick the best one to sell after I compare it to the original.”

“I guess I get that,” Wesley seemed to agree as he watched Neal and Mozzie unpack the myriad of facsimiles and place them on a long table. He tried not to fidget over the ensuing hours as Neal used a jeweler’s loupe to painstakingly look at the most miniscule details on six original as well as numerous ersatz Lalique crystal creations. The poor guy never even detected the sleight of hand shell game in progress as Neal and Mozzie swapped out an authentic and exquisite “ _R Lalique”_ plate for Neal’s accurate rendition. Once the two flimflam artists were back in Neal’s loft, Mozzie studied the crystal plate depicting a beautiful mermaid with long flowing hair and a delicately arcing tail.

“I’ll grant you that it’s pretty, in an old-fashioned kind of way,” Mozzie mused, “but it’s not really my taste. I would venture a guess it’s not something that would pique your interest either. So, why the switch? What are you going to do with this antique white elephant? Even if you sold it, it would only bring in bupkis in the grand scheme of things, certainly not like a fake Renoir. I guess you could give it to June as a Christmas gift. It would fit in with the motif in her parlor.”

Neal didn’t seem to be paying attention as he rearranged some little knickknacks on an etagere to make room for the beautiful plate. He had learned that the best way to avoid suspicious scrutiny was to display something innocently in plain sight.

“Oh, I definitely have other plans for it,” the young con man finally said mysteriously.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter was overjoyed that the sting could finally be put into motion. Jones set up the online auction site that he named “ _Ooh là là_ — _Lalique.”_ There was immediate lively interest in the six pieces on the block that included an assortment of decanters, bowls, statuettes, and perfume bottles. There were also a half-dozen G-Men avidly following the seesawing bidding as they determinedly kept outmaneuvering the unsuspecting public. Ultimately, they would be acquiring each offering with the highest bid when the time ticked down.

“Damn it!” Diana complained one afternoon. “Some stupid doofus keeps topping every one of my bids. He’s running the price up so that it’s come down to just the two of us battling it out.”

Peter peered over her shoulder. “Let the _stupid doofus_ have it,” he said wryly.

When Diana gave her boss an incredulous look, he explained his reasoning. “Look at the screen name, Diana— _Dante’s Inferno._ I’ll wager that’s Mozzie getting into the act and thinking he’s clever. Neal probably told him that you’re _Di-Hard_. He’s just trying to yank your chain.”

“I’m gonna hurt that little dweeb,” a frustrated female agent vowed.

“Be my guest,” Peter said with a malicious little smile.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jones was actually doing double-duty. After he had uploaded Neal’s crystal items to the new site, he was also monitoring the previous auctioneer’s portal on the Dark Web in the hopes that the original nefarious mastermind would make contact when he became disgruntled enough about the thriving and successful competition. To date, _Ooh là là_ — _Lalique_ had amassed quite a haul—well, maybe it should be termed a virtual windfall of cash that looked legit. All of the FBI’s final winning bids far outstripped the prices on the previous site.

Ten days later, Jones was preparing to upload the remaining six of Neal’s creations for the second round. Peter meandered over to Neal’s desk and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to do your comparisons with the originals before the auction goes live?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Neal said confidently, making Peter begin to worry about his CI’s smug answer. Something seemed out of kilter, but Peter couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Just like always, he was resigned to waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Apparently, word had spread among avid art glass collectors, and they were flocking to the site in droves. FBI agents were challenged to keep one step ahead of the other bidders. On the second day, a cockroach finally climbed out of the woodwork. _René_ with the stylized crest made contact with his original auctioneer via the Dark Web. He had no idea he was communicating with a government agent.

_“I need a way to contact this irritating upstart,”_ he wrote _. “Do you still have that information?”_

Jones strung him along. “ _Maybe.”_

_“C’mon, my friend,”_ René goaded _, “tell me what’s going on.”_

_“Maybe I’m his new auctioneer,”_ Jones typed _. “And just maybe it isn’t all cloak and dagger stuff like how you and I operated at your insistence. This time around, I actually get to see the person I’m working with.”_

_“So you jumped ship?”_ René replied.

_“You gotta look out for number one,”_ was the terse answer.

_“Well, maybe I want a piece of the action, too. Tell me how to reach your new boss, and perhaps we can come to an agreement. I can certainly reward you for your cooperation,”_ René wheedled.

_“He’s not my boss; he’s my new partner,”_ Jones typed. _“Maybe we’re fine the way we are and we don’t need any other kiddies in our sandbox.”_

When _René_ responded with a ludicrously stupendous bribe, Jones knew he had landed the prize. After a few minutes of tense hesitation, he was only too happy to oblige, providing an actual address for Neal’s warehouse. The trap was now baited, and it was time for the rat to make an appearance.


	3. Things Start Heating Up

Peter was chomping at the bit to catch this ‘ _René’_ person _._ A lot of time and man hours had gone into this sting and Peter was taking it personally that the brazen counterfeiter was still at large. But maybe not for long.

“Neal, you get to have your wish granted. You can indulge yourself in a little hiatus from your desk job here in the office. But you can’t be idle. I want you to spend every day at the warehouse doing your thing. We’ve got the whole place wired for sound, so if your nemesis shows up, just do what you do best. Get him talking and bragging about his past crimes. We’ll be listening and recording, and then we’ll do what we do best—we’ll take him down for good. The FBI van will be parked down the street, and I’ll have rotating teams of agents monitoring the feed 24/7. They’ll keep me apprised of any developments. If _René_ makes an appearance and you can finagle a confession out of him, I want to be there personally to put the cuffs on.”

“Ah,” Neal sighed happily. “So now I get to play on the FBI’s dime instead of being a lowly serf who is a slave to a timeclock.”

“Whatever,” Peter huffed. “Just remember your anklet will tell me if you decide to take it to the next level and indulge in a little joyriding.”

Neal just laughed as he collected his suit jacket from the back of his chair. Peter caught his CI’s elbow before he managed to make his escape. “Neal, be careful. We’ve pushed this guy’s buttons, so he could be unpredictable, maybe even dangerous.”

“Right,” Neal smiled. “And you wouldn’t want to have to go to all the trouble of training a new confidential informant that you hook to a leash.”

“Maybe I misspoke,” Peter admitted sheepishly. “What I said the other day, well, that may have been a bit harsh. But level with me, Neal, is it even possible to hurt your feelings? If it is, then I’m sorry.”

Neal favored Peter with his blue-eyed stare before shrugging nonchalantly. “Maybe if you put that apology in writing, it may go a long way in appeasing my wounded feelings.” Then he turned abruptly and made his exit leaving Peter trying to figure his CI out. It was always hard to read between the lines with Neal. At times, Peter found himself tiptoeing through an emotional minefield.

~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next couple of days, Neal and Mozzie kept themselves busy during their downtime, but they were always careful regarding what they said because they knew Big Brother was listening. Mozzie passive-aggressively began blasting operatic arias that echoed off the corrugated metal sides of the warehouse. To preserve his hearing, Neal utilized earplugs while he contented himself making tiny little Swarovski crystal animals that he lined up on a workbench like a queue at the zoo waiting to board Noah’s ark. Mozzie picked up a small, round pig with a curly tail made out of thin silver wire.

“You should give this little critter to your handler, mon frère,” he suggested with a nod of his head. “Don’t you agree it would be very apropos. Is the Suit too dimwitted to get the implied metaphor?”

Neal looked up and made a slicing gesture across his throat. “It’s true,” Mozzie managed to get in the last word, nonetheless. After a few days of non-stop highbrow musical culture, Peter contacted Neal on his phone.

“Ixnay the opera, Neal. It’s putting the monitoring agents in the van to sleep.”

“Would they prefer hip hop or rap? There is a slight difference in the genres, in case you didn’t know,” Neal added innocently before Peter abruptly disconnected.

By day four, Mozzie had grown tired of his spiteful and childish antics. He was now stretched out and snoring on a Barcalounger that he had dragged in from one of his safehouses. Neal had filled the previous long hours making drawings of Waterford items. He had the furnace going at full tilt because he was about to fire one of his new Irish crystal creations. Suddenly, without warning, the door of the building slid open and a stranger stood before them. Mozzie sat up abruptly and looked bug-eyed while Neal’s eyes narrowed as he faced the intruder who was of medium build with dark hair and a Vandyke beard. Neal estimated his age to be mid-forties.

“Do you always just barge right into someone’s personal space without an invitation?” Neal said evenly. “Maybe an introduction should be the first order of business.”

“You can just call me _René_ for now,” the interloper simpered as he scanned his surroundings.

“Ah, the washed up Lalique forger,” Neal replied as he watched the stranger make a circuit around the expansive area.

“And you must be the new kid on the block who quickly stepped in to fill my shoes,” René answered.

“Well, that wasn’t very hard to do,” Neal challenged. “They weren’t very big shoes.”

“I was doing alright,” René insisted.

Neal smiled grimly. “Maybe you were until some bright bulb decided to insure his newly acquired treasure. That’s when the shit hit the fan for you. It wasn’t very hard for even a half-blind appraiser to see that your work looked shoddy. What did you use to make them—perhaps a 3D printer?” Neal goaded.

“They were damn good and I sold a lot of really excellent imitations!” René roared.

“But they weren’t good enough—not as good as mine, which, by the way, are perfect,” Neal crowed. “Now tell me why you’re here. If you just wanted to view my work and be awed, all you had to do is offer the winning bid on my auction site and I would have had the item on your doorstep the next day.”

“I’m thinking maybe we could go into business together and expand our horizons,” René said evenly after he had gotten his temper back under control. “The Lalique stuff is a niche market, and the number of original pieces that the old artisan once created are finite. There are only just so many in quantity. I think we could branch out into other areas of different valuable crystal.”

“I’m way ahead of you, Buddy,” Neal sneered as he indicated his Waterford drawings. “Besides this, there’s Baccarat, Galway, Rosenthal, and I thought I might even try my hand with Venetian glass. The way I see it, the sky’s the limit, and I could retire one day after a long and profitable career. Now, my friend, notice that I used a singular personal pronoun. I didn’t say ‘we’ because I didn’t invite you to the party.”

“Well, you managed to steal my auctioneer away,” the once again angry man scoffed, “so you’re really not a one-man show.”

“ _My_ auctioneer is appreciative when he is paid what he is worth, so he’s happy to be of assistance in exchange for his very generous cut of the profits. It’s just a good practice to keep the help contented. Maybe you missed that elementary lecture in your college business class. Now that we’ve had our little powwow, I find myself getting bored. Why don’t you just hit the road.”

Neal could only hope that the listening agents in the van had recorded every damning word and were now hustling up the street to arrest René when he stepped out the door. However, that didn’t happen, at least not yet. A very irate and intrusive glass forger suddenly strode across the room toward the worktable. With a vicious sweep of his arm, all the little Swarovski animals went flying in every direction. Now standing next to the blazing furnace with its open door, René turned to face Neal and Mozzie with a lethal looking weapon in his hand.

“Whoa, good buddy, there’s no need for guns,” Neal quickly said as he held up his hands and a panicked Mozzie mimicked his actions.

“I don’t like people who disrespect me,” René growled. “Where I grew up, there was only one way to deal with snot-nosed young bullies. You eliminated them.”

“We could revisit the partnership idea,” Neal stalled. “I can be very useful in the long run.”

“Yeah, maybe _you_ could, but that Judas over there is expendable,” René claimed as he looked to Mozzie. “Auctioneers are probably a dime a dozen, and we could replace him in a New York minute.”

As René lifted the gun and took aim, Neal dove for Mozzie and took him out by the knees. The two men now lying on the hard floor heard the shot just a nanosecond before the explosion occurred that rained down parts of the ceiling onto their heads and started an inferno. Neal immediately knew what had happened. All glass-making furnaces emit a certain amount of gases such as carbon monoxide, and some other vapors, like hydrogen, are ignitable. All of these furnaces require adequate ventilation to prevent spontaneous combustion. The close firing of a gun near that potential powder keg had provided the spark that kindled the hydrogen, and now anything flammable in the room was ablaze, including Mozzie’s cherished recliner.

Neal initially felt stunned but knew he had to move. It was now pitch black, with only the licking flames providing a spreading yellow glow in the space. Neal thought he saw a body lying next to the furnace, but he had to feel around in a rapidly spreading smoky haze to find Mozzie. By happenstance, he felt a foot encased in a shoe, and he then traced it up to a torso contorted under metal roofing material and a heavy rafter.

“Moz! Mozzie!” Neal shouted, but got no answering response. “I’m going to get you out of here, I swear!” the young con man promised as he clawed at the debris like a madman. It was getting harder and harder to breathe and the smoke was stinging his eyes, but somehow Neal called upon an adrenalin-fueled strength to hoist the constricting timber away from his friend’s body. Ignoring what may have been trauma-induced injuries for Mozzie, Neal hunkered down near the floor and pulled the little man’s shirt up over his nose and mouth. He repeated that action with his own t-shirt before dragging the bald man’s heavy weight towards the entrance of the warehouse. Neal took a deep breath when he reached that point and stood up to pull the sliding door open. Unfortunately, the explosion had caused it to buckle ominously and it was wedged tightly shut. Neal tried again and again before he sank down in exhaustion next to his long-time friend and tried to accept the fact that they were both about to die on a cement floor in a dumb warehouse. How ignominious an end was that?

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter had gotten a heads-up from his monitoring agents in the van that a stranger, who was probably René, had arrived on site. The suddenly invigorated FBI agent placed a bubble on his Taurus and sped along the Manhattan streets. When he was getting close to the meatpacking district, his own siren was eclipsed by the overpowering wail of hook and ladder engines barreling in the same direction. He tried to reach his agents, but got no response. A sudden icy cold hand was now gripping his gut and he pushed the needle on the speedometer even higher. Something was very wrong—Peter just knew it!

When he skidded to a halt at the warehouse, Peter found three emergency vehicles already on the premises with the fire captain shouting out orders to his men who were togged out in their protective gear and rebreathers. They were in the process of attaching a grappling hook to the front of a massive fire vehicle and then repositioning the other end to a small opening alongside a distorted metal door.

“We’re going to try pulling that door down,” the captain informed Peter. “I was told there were three people trapped inside. Most likely, when we provide an open access point, the outside air rushing in will cause a lethal backdraft. However, right now, I’m hoping we may have a few precious seconds to grab anybody close enough to that entryway. If none of them managed to make it that far, then I’ve doomed them to a fiery death,” the serious man said softly.

“Do what you need to do,” Peter whispered with his heart in his throat.

Peter watched in horror as the big rig slowly started to move in reverse. The thick chain locked around its grill was pulled taut, and then stressed steel groaned like a parody of Atlas holding up the world on his shoulders. Eventually, the warped panel surrendered to the physics of a greater force and fell with a crash. Rescuers were ready and rushed into the billowing smoke. Peter couldn’t take a breath until he saw them using a fireman’s carry to remove two unconscious bodies. It wasn’t a second too soon because the whole building seemed to give off a sonic boom that caused the earth beneath Peter’s feet to shake.

A panicked Peter rushed to the waiting ambulances to see who may have survived. He witnessed EMTs attaching oxygen masks to two sooty and bedraggled men, and he felt tears sting his own eyes when he recognized both Neal and Mozzie. “Were they burned?” he asked in an agitated and frightened tone.

“Not that we can tell after just eyeballing them,” the paramedic said. “But both are suffering from smoke inhalation and we need to get them stabilized as quickly as possible. Save your questions for the emergency room docs after we transport them to the closest hospital.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, Neal managed to pull himself out of his nether world of disjointed and frightening images. With a con man’s unique perception of his surrounding, Neal knew he wasn’t alone. He opened bloodshot eyes and found Peter staring down at him.

“Hey,” the FBI agent whispered softly with a fond expression on his face.

“Hey, yourself,” Neal rasped around his swollen throat.

“You’re in a hospital, Buddy, and the doctors claim you’re now out of the woods and going to make a full recovery,” Peter explained. “Do you remember the fire?”

Neal furrowed his brow. “Yeah, René set it off when he fired a gun. He was going to kill Moz.” Then the young man looked stricken. “Oh God, what happened to Mozzie, Peter? He was trapped under all this stuff and I tried to get him free but I can’t remember if I managed it. Please, Peter, I need to know where Mozzie is.”

Peter smiled and pulled the curtain back that separated two beds. “There’s your little cohort in crime.” Neal was gratified to see Mozzie lying peacefully propped up on two pillows with an oxygen cannula embedded in his nostrils. “Haversham woke up a little while before you did, but then fell asleep again,” Peter explained.

“Is he badly hurt?” Neal next wanted to know.

“Nah, just a couple of broken ribs and a sprained wrist,” Peter assured his young partner. “He’ll be up to his old tricks in no time.”

“Did René manage to make it out of the warehouse?” Neal asked quietly.

“Unfortunately, no,” Peter informed him. “The intensity of the fire practically incinerated his remains. The coroner doesn’t even have enough teeth to get a DNA match. So, I supposed we’ll never know his true identity.”

“All this lethal drama over a few pieces of stupid glass,” Neal sighed.

Peter nodded his head. “I suppose true psychopaths often kill for a lot less.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later, Neal was invited to Peter and El’s house for a celebratory dinner in honor of his survival. Another case had been permanently closed, but, unfortunately, Neal was back to reviewing mortgage fraud cases and fighting boredom. That evening, the young con man came bearing gifts to the Burke household. He presented his hostess with a square box elegantly wrapped in silver and ivory paper. El marveled when she opened it and beheld the exquisite Trepied Sirene dish of a delicate mermaid with trailing hair adorning its flat surface.

“It’s breathtakingly beautiful,” El whispered softly. “Wherever did you get it, Neal?”

Peter answered before Neal opened his mouth. “It’s one of his bogus Lalique pieces from our sting operation.”

“Well, fake or not, I absolutely love it,” El gushed. “I’m going to display it right up on our fireplace mantle so I can marvel at its loveliness each and every day.”

Neal smiled, knowing that each and every time that he was a future guest in Peter’s home, he could also revel in seeing a famous old French artisan’s unique creation innocently residing in the Burke’s living room right under Peter’s nose!


End file.
